


The Ark

by rfsmiley



Series: Ineffable Husbands in Space [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dying Earth, Environmentalism, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, M/M, Science Fiction, Space fic, Spaceships, i cannot believe i wrote ineffable husbands sci fi what is wrong with me, ineffable husbands science fiction, it's a space fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 01:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20381164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rfsmiley/pseuds/rfsmiley
Summary: We’ve all been assuming that it takes them 6,000 years to figure it out, but what if it takes 6,300?Or: the ineffable husbands evacuate a dying Earth.





	The Ark

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ковчег](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21758188) by [bais_barbaris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bais_barbaris/pseuds/bais_barbaris)

> On canon: this is mostly informed by tv canon but does borrow from the book.
> 
> A word of thanks: this was beta’ed by the incredible @Drawlight who is an insanely talented angel, I don’t pretend to be in their sphere but they were gracious enough to offer several great pieces of feedback for this. Thank you so much for my first beta my dear. Edit II: Another thank you to the divine bais_barbaris who translated it into Russian! Also available [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/8866608/22653637).
> 
> And finally: The Ark is based loosely on the Razorback from the Expanse series, which is incredible by the way.

*

Aziraphale took the time to lock the bookshop. That was the part that hurt Crowley the most, afterwards. By then it was the last bookshop in England – possibly Europe; no one really had the resources to investigate questions like that, not anymore – and was thriving simply by virtue of its status as a relic. Well, that, and Aziraphale’s newfound generosity of spirit. Despite his jealousy over the hoard of precious books, the angel had somehow managed to overcome his distaste enough to let people browse for whole hours at a time, allowing perusal of the precious yellowed paper, printed with real ink. Crowley didn’t have to ask why. It was more meaningful than any miracle either of them could have done.

“Wait, you’re _closing?_” said a girl on the sidewalk, clutching at her ratty bag, and there were a handful of people behind her, too, who also looked distraught as they gazed up at the sign: _No Service._ Crowley pretended to be interested in his nails. “Mr. Fell, no, you can’t – for how long?”

“Permanently, I’m afraid,” said Aziraphale gravely.

Her eyes lit with sudden understanding. “_Oh,_” she said. “Oh, my God! You got a shuttle ticket!”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, glancing at Crowley. “Well, no.”

Shuttles, Crowley thought, feeling annoyed with the girl, and with himself too. What a farce that whole business was. One departed to the colonies about every five years, a timeline balancing planetary evacuation with the need to establish infrastructure. Every country had sent their brightest minds to lay the groundwork in 2135, that momentous year, well over a century ago now. Today the precious seats were subject to international raffle, although Crowley, like most people, was bitterly aware that the system was rigged.

Still, even just the hope of someday getting off-planet seemed to keep many people going. It was certainly evidenced here, in the fire in this young girl’s face. He looked at his nails again.

“Uh, okay,” said the girl, plainly confused by his reticence. “Well. Good luck, then, I guess.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

The angel had said it dismissively, but she lingered, seemingly unwilling to leave. “Are you going away too?” she said to Crowley. “If he is?”

Aziraphale looked uncomfortable, but the demon grinned at her, enjoying the question, the idea that he was firmly established as Mr. Fell’s odd gentleman friend, a foil so necessary that if one left, the other would too. “Yep,” he said. “We’ve been together for a long time. It would be a shame to break up the band now.”

_Break up the band?_ Aziraphale mouthed at him, annoyed. Crowley winked, lascivious, and the angel rolled his eyes.

“Good,” said the girl, decisively. “That’s good.”

“I agree,” said Crowley, unable to stop himself from liking her, and she smiled back at him, a little shyly.

“I like your eyes, by the way,” she said. “Very chic.”

The demon blinked at her, surprised. He had stopped wearing sunglasses when cosmetic genomic modification had come into vogue, two hundred years previous, although things like snake eyes were considered gauche lately; far better to spend your money on nonperishables. For Crowley to still sport them was suggestive of staggering wealth, and most people that commented on them were unkind about it.

“Um,” he said. “Thanks.”

She shrugged, looking back at him, and then at Aziraphale, whose expression was difficult to read, although it hinted at sadness. “Okay, well,” she said. “See you around, I guess.”

_I doubt that very much, _thought Crowley, watching her depart. Then, turning back, he offered his arm to his companion: a mock show of chivalry. “Shall we?”

He was surprised, although not unpleasantly so, when the angel actually accepted it. “Yes,” said Aziraphale, “I’m ready,” and Crowley, studying the determined jut of his jaw, had the exact same thought again, only this time with even more certainty.

“Anywhere you want to go, before… ?” he said instead.

“No, my dear,” said Aziraphale, tightening his grip. “I said I was ready.”

“St. James, perhaps?” It was xeriscaped now, lifeless but tasteful, although he found that he missed the ducks.

“Don’t be cruel,” Aziraphale snapped. “Where did you leave the ship?”

_The ship, _Crowley mused, reveling in the still-alien phrase. His ship. It seemed like something from a bad science fiction show: a demon, owning a spaceship. The very concept was absurd.

It was also, to be perfectly candid, somewhat unnecessary. Once before – roughly three centuries ago now – he had seriously considered the possibility of abandoning Earth, rather than face Hell’s fury and the imminent apocalypse. Personal reasons (all right, one extremely personal reason) had kept him from doing so, which was probably for the best, as it would have been a difficult endeavor. While technically possible for angels and demons to survive in space even in corporeal form, it was a lot to keep track of: keeping the water in your tissues from vaporizing without atmospheric pressure; warding yourself against the unfiltered radiation; pouring the ceaseless miracle of oxygen into the bloodstream. Persuading one’s atoms that they could travel at lightspeed while this was happening created the immortal equivalent of a splitting migraine.

How much simpler, how much easier, to borrow from the cleverness of humans. Their discovery of the warp drive in 2088 had opened the highways of interstellar travel. Crowley had taken to it like a duck to, well, you know. Eventually, he had even paid for a beautiful vessel of his own (for, again, one extremely personal reason – the same one, and one he was not ready to confess).

“Funny you should ask,” he said, trying to smile, as they strolled away from the bookshop. “I’ve got her at the old Tadfield airbase.”

Aziraphale glowered. “A little on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Oh, don’t be so grim, angel,” said Crowley, tilting his head up to the sun. He had been reminding himself to enjoy it, that familiar if increasingly malignant heat, for the last several days. Hours from now, he would be missing it desperately. “Anyone would think it was the end of the world, the way you carry on.”

*

_We should go, Crowley had said, in the early 2200s, when the exodus to the colonies had begun in earnest; angel, it’s time, we need to go. And Aziraphale had said, peevishly, no, not a chance, my dear boy, I’ve finally gotten the VR version of the shop how I want it, and anyway they’re doing remarkable things with atmospheric engineering, this whole thing’s going to turn around any day now._

_Resigned, Crowley had gone back to his flat and, hot and listless, watched documentaries on the oceanic collapse of 2056, or on the armies of microscopic drones that pollinated greenhouses now that the bees were gone, and thought: yeah, sure, any day now._

_He pretended that he, too, was waiting for the tide to turn. In reality, he was waiting for the angel to soften. He was also waiting, to be perfectly honest, for the right ship; for about forty years, for example, he kept tabs on every private spacecraft auction in the Northern Hemisphere, looking for one that satisfied a very specific need._

_He was determined that he would be ready, when it was finally time. _

_He might have, of course, threatened to go without Aziraphale – but then, he had shown that to be a bluff a long time ago. Instead, he simply waited, hoping against hope that the angel would figure things out for himself._

_It was fine. At least it wasn’t much of a change from their status quo. _

*

For Aziraphale, Crowley could see immediately, the Tadfield airbase was an unpleasant shock. Memories aside, he had to admit that the aesthetic alone was quite different than it had been the last time they had been here together. Barren, parched, it was now lent color only by the nylon tarps and tents of evictees, huddled among the ruined buildings. But then, the English countryside had not weathered the last three centuries well. As far as Crowley could tell, it pretty much looked like this everywhere.

“Goodness,” said Aziraphale, eyes lingering on the camps at the periphery of the base, the portable solar panels and salvaged ship parts winking in the afternoon light. “It’s certainly different.”

“You do have to admire the colors,” Crowley quipped. “Very festive.” He was secretly pleased that the refugees’ battered refrigerator, which had mysteriously started working again during his last visit to the airbase, still appeared to be fully functional.

“Must you be so cavalier?” Aziraphale said. Mentioning the park had probably been a mistake, Crowley thought; he was still plainly in a snit. “These are people’s _lives_, Crowley.”

Even here, even now, he was unable to resist the bait. “Didn’t you tell me once that the lower people started out, the more opportunities they had to be truly holy?” He mimed hands clasped in prayer. “ ‘He maketh me to lie down in green pastures,’ and I think Tadfield was a formerly green pasture, anyway.” A dig at the angel’s ribs. “It’s all ineffable, you said.”

To this, there was no answer. Crowley snuck a sidelong glance, anticipating fury; he knew the other hated it when he abused the Psalms. But no, Aziraphale appeared to have lost the thread of the conversation altogether, his blue eyes widening as they lit on something past the crowds – and, following his gaze, Crowley immediately understood why.

Stationed out on the tarmac was a sleek black racing pinnace, known affectionately among humans as a “pod racer” (Star Wars had held up remarkably well over the last three-hundred-odd years, although people generally agreed that the VR remakes had been a mistake). This one was slim and small, less than twenty meters in length from tip to tail, and Crowley felt a surge of relief as he saw her familiar silhouette. He was even more grateful that the robot he had left, one of the personal defense models that the United States had been churning out for a century, still lumbered around her in an untiring patrol.

It didn’t look like anyone had disturbed them. Well. Good. He had hoped that no one would be foolish enough to try. After all, pod racers generally didn’t have warp drives. That technology was carefully guarded, and even to get it illegally cost billions. Obtaining it for this little vessel had taken a series of demonic miracles, as well as more money than the continent of Australia was currently worth. To the casual observer, however, it still only appeared to be a spacecraft capable of taking a joyride: not worth facing a defense bot over.

“Is that her?” said Aziraphale.

“You see any other spaceships lying around, angel?”

“Hmm,” said his companion, sounding hesitant, as they strolled towards it. “Not very big, is it?”

“It’s not the size that matters,” said Crowley reflexively, and when Aziraphale glared at him he flashed his sunniest smile. “It’s what you –”

“Yes, I think I’ve got the general idea,” said the angel tartly, and Crowley, looking at him, wondered if he _did_, or if he had ever –

No use following that thought now. He turned his attention back to the airbase, feeling the eyes on them as they crossed the tarmac, the speculation as to whether they were the ship’s proper owners, and, eventually, the glee when, as they drew nearer, the robot unshouldered its weapon and leveled it at Aziraphale. So sorry to disappoint, he thought coolly, and snapped his fingers. A second later, the gun swung harmlessly in the mechanical hands.

“These things must be one of yours,” said Aziraphale, looking at it disdainfully as they passed.

“Nah,” Crowley said. “Haven’t messed about in America for years.” No one needed to. Not any more.

Halting beside the pinnace, they looked together up at her perfect lines, marred only by the word _ARK _stenciled under the hull in massive white letters. Crowley caught Aziraphale examining them, frowning, and felt a momentary swoop of panic. Not for the first time, he reflected that he really should have picked a different name. This one showed his hand far too much.

Damn it, it wasn’t his _fault_. When he had tried to think of an appropriate epithet, it had been the only one that came to mind. In his mind’s eye he had seen again the merciless rising waters, the solitary drifting boat, the lonely pairs of all of God’s creatures in their pens, not yet realizing that, due to circumstances beyond their control, they were now mated for life.

The _Ark_, he thought, reaching up to press his palm against her_. _Their ship. Their deliverance, the thing that would bear the two of them safely out.

Aziraphale made no comment, for which Crowley was extremely grateful. Carefully, he popped the seal on a hatch on the underbelly of the racer, exposing a digital keypad, and typed in his pin: 4-0-0-4. A moment later, with a pneumatic hiss, the pinnace opened.

“Get in, angel.”

His passenger went in stiffly, stooping, picking his way into the belly of the ship, and Crowley went after him. There was hardly room for both of them in the cabin, and the demon tried not to think about how closely they were wedged together.

“The books?” said Aziraphale, looking at him, their faces inches apart. Of course he would be preoccupied with that now, Crowley reflected, annoyed.

“Storage.” It wasn’t a lie; he had promised that the angel could bring three (forbidding Bibles; he was sick of the blisters he had incurred in that vein). Aziraphale had given him the selection a week ago. Consequently, one of the compartments in the hull contained a first edition of _The Picture of Dorian Gray, _a signed copy of _Small Gods, _and an extremely battered _Hamlet _(“oh, my dear, do you remember when we –” Aziraphale had said with shining eyes, and Crowley, holding the text in his hands, had remembered with acute embarrassment).

Aziraphale was looking at him the same way now, aglow, as if he had hung the stars in the heavens. The expression made him uncomfortable. No, he amended, it made him sad.

“Sit,” he said sharply, giving him a little push towards the passenger launch chair. Obediently, Aziraphale sat, and Crowley crouched to secure the harness around him, a mess of buckles and straps and padding that would be ultimately futile in the event of disaster.

He was lost, for a moment, thinking about that. Aziraphale touched the back of his hand, softly bringing him back to Earth (and oh, now _there_ was a phrase that had aged poorly). Feeling deeply unhappy, Crowley looked up into the blue eyes and thought about taking a chance. Oh, it would be a leap of faith, of course, to not know how the angel would respond. But humans had risked more to achieve salvation, these last few centuries. They had climbed into space shuttles without knowing if they’d ever see solid ground again, and look what it had gotten them.

Greenhouses on the moon. Stations lit by another sun.

If he dared – if he only dared –

“All right?” he said gruffly.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

It was extraordinarily difficult to let him go.

*

_“I’ve got it!” Crowley declared, holding up the microchip as he barged into Aziraphale’s flat. From the kitchen, the angel looked up without comprehension; Crowley sighed and slotted it into his hand terminal. The hologram appeared instantly, a rotating rocket lettered with a unique identification number and the logo, United Nations Interstellar Piloting License._

_“You finally did it,” said Aziraphale, sounding surprised._

_“I finally did it,” and boy, had it ever been a chore and a half. Why had humans made space flight so restricted?_

_“Oh, good for you, my dear,” the angel enthused. “We should celebrate. May I offer you some tea?”_

_Crowley knew he meant iced tea; it was too hot, these days, for anything else. “Sure,” he said, straddling a chair, watching as Aziraphale took out the pitcher, and then, to his surprise, a cutting board and something else, something he actually didn’t recognize for a moment: a real lemon. God only knew where he had acquired the shriveled, stunted thing. Despite its flaws, the angel handled it as carefully as if it were a prize specimen, touching the puckered skin with something close to worship, before scooping the slices, rind and all, into the pitcher. _

_Crowley did have to admire the decadence of it. He hadn’t seen fresh citrus in years._

_“So,” said Aziraphale, pouring him a tumbler of the cold Darjeeling. “Does that mean you’re leaving?”_

_The newly minted pilot searched his face, hunting for something, anything besides the tone of polite interest. Envy? Regret? Possessiveness?_

_“Nah,” he said, taking the glass, already sweating in his hand. “Can’t give up the old haunts just yet,” and he wondered if he was imagining the flicker of relief. _

*

The launch was as uneventful as a launch could be, thank – someone, although one would never guess it from the way Aziraphale clenched the arms of the launch chair. Eyes closed, Crowley listened to his tiny breathless noises, wondering absently if the crush of the g-force reminded him of anything. It didn’t seem likely, but he wondered all the same.

“Is it always like that?” the angel panted, once their little craft had surfaced into the infinite black, and that terrible pressure finally eased into weightlessness. “It’s like being – crushed.”

Crowley debated telling him that it felt, actually, a little bit like Falling, and decided against it. “It’s flying, angel,” he said. “Everything comes at a price.”

“Not _our_ kind of flying,” Aziraphale insisted, and Crowley bit back all the things he wanted to say to _that_.

Instead of answering, he pivoted the ship. Together they looked at the orb hung far below them, the swirling shades of umber and ocean gray, a planet in its death throes, and Crowley felt as though he had made his point when, beside him, Aziraphale grew perfectly still. You see, he wanted to say. _Everything_.

“It used to be green, you know,” he said curtly. “The first few times I came up, it still was. Should’ve come with me. Seen it for yourself.” He had asked, he remembered. Aziraphale had said no. Too fast, always too fast.

There was no response, not for a long time, and when the demon finally dared to glance at him, an unfamiliar glisten in the blue eyes made something tighten in his gut. “I think it’s probably for the best that I didn’t.”

It probably _was_ for the best, Crowley thought, and suddenly all the rage blew out of him, leaving nothing but a cold exhaustion. He wished he could sleep for another hundred years (although God Herself probably didn’t know what he would wake up to if he did. Radioactive soup, probably). “No fatalism in this ship, angel,” he said, a bit more gently. “Think of everything they’ve managed to save.”

“I know,” Aziraphale sighed. “All the stories, and the music, and at least some of the art –”

He winced. The art was a sore spot for them both. They’d watched the international debates rage about whether to save shuttle space for things like David, or the Pietà, and of course those items had lost to seed banks and genetic samples, had been uploaded in hologram form instead. But it wasn’t the same.

“No,” Aziraphale said softly, as if he had heard somehow. “You’re right. It’s not the same.”

“Well,” said Crowley. “At least the whales are already gone.”

“Oh, yes. When did that happen, again?”

“2056.”

“What a year that was.”

It certainly had been. They had spent most of it drunk. “The end of bouillebasse, for a start.”

“The end of a lot of things, I think.” Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, and then began, “Do you think that She –” 

He stopped. It didn’t matter; Crowley knew what the end of the question was. Several scathing answers rose inside him, venomous as vipers. He pushed them down.

“I don’t know, angel,” he said. “I really don’t.”

They were quiet for a while. Crowley fiddled with the straps of his harness, staring down at the masses of whirling cloud, the wide swaths of desert near the equator, the occasional dimple that meant a hurricane was wreaking madness somewhere. Part of him was viciously glad to be out, and yet, and yet –

“I wish Adam had saved it when he had the chance.”

A confession, in a voice that sounded strained. Crowley deliberately did not think about how easy it would be to reach over and take his hand.

“Don’t be daft,” he said instead, trying to lighten the mood. “People are people. They’d have found a way to wreck it again. Always arsing up the garden, choosing knowledge over Paradise.”

“Sometimes with a little encouragement,” Aziraphale said.

Surprised, Crowley glanced at him sidelong, and yes, he hadn’t been mistaken; somehow, through something just shy of an actual miracle, there was actually the hint of a smile on those lips.

Deep relief flooded him. They both knew what came next, an exchange of these old, well-worn lines of theirs, comforting now, in the face of crisis. He protested, as he had always protested, trying to keep the answering smile from his face. “They did say to get up there and make some trouble.”

“Well, you’re a demon,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley marveled at the tenderness that had grown to infuse those words, over the long years. “It’s what you do.” He paused, and then added, “Used to do.”

“Yep,” said Crowley. “Past tense. Just a pilot now.”

“And a very good one, dear heart.” Aziraphale drew in a long, unnecessary breath of the recycled air, and settled back in his chair. “Shall we go?”

Grateful to have something to do with his suddenly shaking hands, the pilot in question navigated the _Ark _away, correcting her yaw, and then dialed up her thrust as quickly as he dared; they leapt out into the starlight, as if she was hungry to be gone, and left the Earth rotating slowly behind them.

Neither of them seemed particularly inclined to talk. Crowley, for some reason, was remembering taking Aziraphale on his maiden ride in the Bentley, roaring up the motorway on a cool September morning, back when Septembers had been cool. Aziraphale had thought that the occasion merited a pair of driving goggles. He had been extremely huffy about the reception – namely, Crowley laughing until he cried – and sulked, inconsolable, in the passenger seat, for the entirety of the journey home.

It was the strangest thing, but for the first time, the recollection hurt.

“Forgive me, my dear,” said Aziraphale at last, breaking in on his thoughts, “but shouldn’t we be going a bit faster?”

Startled, Crowley jerked his head up and looked at him sharply, but the blue eyes were guileless; it was an earnest question. He cleared his throat a couple of times, trying to bring himself into the present. 2292, he told himself. A spaceship, not a car. “No, angel,” he said, when he trusted himself to speak again. “It’s not legal to warp before you’re at least as far out as the moon.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at that. “You never used to observe traffic laws.”

The Bentley flashed into his mind again, leaving a streak of pain, like a comet. “Not sure how to tell you this, but doing a hundred and twenty down the M6 is not the same thing as opening a wormhole prematurely.”

“Hmm,” said his passenger, clearly unpersuaded. “So this is going to take a while.”

“You could say that,” Crowley said, still struggling to recover his composure. “We’ll cross lunar orbit in three days.”

“Three _days_?”

“Yep.”

“Gosh.”

“Could be worse.” He cleared his throat a third time, wishing for water, or better yet for wine. “Remember crossing the continent on horseback?”

“Oh, yes,” said Aziraphale. “ ‘Hard on the buttocks,’ I think you said once.” He shifted appreciatively in his padded seat. “I do agree, this is an improvement.”

“And wasn’t there that time in Russia –”

“Did you ever travel by zeppelin to –”

They looked at each other, and smiled, and it was easier then, the sting of the memories soothed by having the other there, someone else who remembered.

And then, predictably, Aziraphale looked away first.

“Three days,” he said. “All right."

"Sorry, should've warned you," said Crowley, who wasn't sorry at all.

"I'll manage," Aziraphale said primly. "Have you got anything to nibble on?”

“Sure." He had been anticipating this. Opening a hatch on the wall, he fished out a foil packet one-handed, and Aziraphale somehow managed to snatch it out of the air – more a testament to their cramped surroundings than anything else.

“ ‘Buffalo nuggets with zinc,’” he said, reading the label, and pursed his lips in distaste. “Really?”

“The spicy ones are the best,” Crowley informed him, turning his attention back to his display, which was currently monitoring the _Ark’s_ trajectory out of the gravity well. “Hides the taste.”

His passenger was still frowning at the little bag. “I think I’ll take your word for it. More for you, I suppose.”

“Suit yourself,” Crowley said coolly. “Not like we need it,” and did not add, _I brought them for you, angel. Only for you._

“Oh, Lord, how we have fallen,” Aziraphale sighed, tracing the packaging, unaware that his phrasing had made his pilot stiffen just a little. “I used to eat _caviar_, Crowley. Attended by a waiter holding the Moët & Chandon in a _napkin._”

“Yes, I remember,” said the demon, who was now using a fingertip to correct the pitch of the _Ark_, bringing her nose up a degree at a time. Irritably, he tapped through a series of adjusting autopilot suggestions: _yes, fine, yes._ “I was there, if you recall.”

“Coquilles Saint-Jacques,” said Aziraphale sadly. “Pissaladière.”

“I know, angel.”

“Tagliatelle carbonara,” the other went on, sounding increasingly mournful. “Spaghetti al nero di seppia. Duck confit with,” and he sighed again, “_truffle oil_ –”

“Aziraphale,” said Crowley, still flicking rapidly through the alerts on his display. “If you do this all the way to the colonies, I’m warning you, I’m going to make you fly.”

*

_“Chateau La-Fleur Petrus,” said Aziraphale drunkenly, slouching in his armchair. “The Staatsweingut. Chateau Lafite Rothschild.”_

_“Krug Clos d’Ambonnay,” Crowley contributed from the floor._

_“Oh, yes, the Krug Clos d’Ambonnay. And, oh, Crowley, that Chateauneuf du Pape we finished off when Adam was born, do you remember?”_

_“Not likely to forget.” Remembering the taste inexplicably made him think of dolphins. Poor buggers._

_“That Le Pin you got me, before the Four Seasons concert.” Aziraphale sounded wistful. “That was wonderful.”_

_“Ah, the Le Pin,” said Crowley. That memory stung too; he had meant it as a grand romantic gesture, had thought that, between the wine and the box seats he had paid for, Aziraphale might finally clue in. He had had to be satisfied with the angel clasping his hand briefly as the curtain went up. “Yes, that was good.”_

_“I’m just saying,” and anyone might have thought Aziraphale was congested, except that angels could not be congested. “It’s really – it’s really a shame.”_

_Flat on his back on the floor, Crowley wondered if his companion was going to cry, or if perhaps he was already, a little. “I know it’s our last bottle, angel,” he said quietly, staring up at the ceiling, refusing to look over and find out. “But you might as well try to enjoy it.”_

*

Aziraphale was snoring. There was something rather poetic about it, Crowley thought, checking on their solar battery reserves: the ruin of Earth in their wake, while angels slept.

He was aware that the thought was a little cruel, but then, Aziraphale napping was still a prime source of vindictive glee. After suffering long years of teasing for the same vice, he had been tickled when, sometime in the last century or so, the angel had finally adopted the human pastime for himself. As in so many other areas, it then became difficult to get him to exercise anything like restraint. His flat became host to a series of progressively plush mattresses; he also sampled throw pillows, chenille blankets, and twice, notably, Crowley’s own bed.

He forced his mind away from the memory. No use thinking about it, any more than there was use in thinking about expensive reds, private boxes at the Royal Albert Hall, extravagant dinners at the Ritz. That eccentric playwright had said it best: _what’s done is done_, old boy. Time for a regime change.

“Whazzagh,” said Aziraphale, helpfully, jerking in his restraints.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

The angel dragged a hand over his face, and straightened, looking bleary. “Is it?” he said, after a minute. “Morning, that is.”

“Coming up on teatime in London,” said his pilot, after checking. “So no.”

“Teatime,” said Aziraphale thickly. He rubbed his eyes again, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else. “Really, my dear, you can be a little – spiteful.”

“Oh, hey,” said Crowley, nettled. “I did bring you food.”

“Scones,” Aziraphale yawned, only half listening. “Lemon curd. Oh, Crowley, _marmalade,_” and really, Crowley thought, unsure whether to be amused, he might have been discussing something explicit; the angel, who had been stretching as he said the word, let it subside into something not unlike a moan.

“I did warn you that I’d make you fly if you kept that up,” he said, tearing his eyes away from the restless figure. “Less than two hours on the clock, angel. Keep it together.”

“Two hours?” and Aziraphale suddenly seemed a bit more awake. “Is that all?”

“One and a half,” Crowley amended, checking the display again. “And yes, that’s all. Then you’re free of me, if you like,” and he did _try _to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but it was difficult.

“Oh, good,” sighed the angel, shifting in his seat again. “I mean, I’m sure you did what you could, my dear, but I do think I’m ready to get out of this ship. You did get such a wee one.”

“ ‘Wee?’” said Crowley, insulted. “The Ark is top of her class!”

“I’m sure you’re right, but it must be a very small class, you know.” The angel was still apparently trying to get comfortable. “And I can’t say I think much of that name, by the way. This is hardly an _ark¸ _my dear, if there’s not even room for a pair of –”

Crowley bit the inside of his lip; his passenger had gone abruptly silent. He could sense that Aziraphale was looking between the two padded launch chairs with mounting suspicion. Cursing silently, he tried to concentrate on the display in front of him, the lights and numbers that meant, when read in conjunction, that they were not about to be unpleasantly ejected into a vacuum or blown up. They were, after all, very important. Certainly more important than Aziraphale connecting the dots, if that was even what was happening –

“Aren’t pod racers,” said Aziraphale, his voice dangerously level, “usually designed for a single passenger?”

Bollocks.

“Are they?” said Crowley, feigning absorption in a dial. This particular one controlled cabin temperature, but Aziraphale was as ignorant of ship mechanics as he had been of every technological advance after the steam engine, so it was adequate cover. “Lucky for you I picked this one, then, isn’t it?”

“You picked it,” said Aziraphale, in his most censorious voice, “_fifty years ago_.”

His throat felt tight. “Don’t.”

The angel was sounding more awake by the second. And increasingly angry. “You were planning this all along.”

“Please don’t.”

“You didn’t need to do that,” Aziraphale said disapprovingly, ignoring him, as usual.

“Well, what would you have done if I hadn’t?” Crowley snapped.

When Aziraphale hesitated, he chanced a glance across; the angel was frowning down at his hands in his lap. He paused, and then rubbed a hand across his face again. “I’m not sure,” he said at last, “but that’s not the point. You shouldn’t have assumed that I would capitulate –”

“I didn’t _assume,” _Crowley said, and it was true. Hopes, prayers, curses – these were not assumptions. These were barren planets caught in orbit, unable to sustain life, but also unable to pull free from their star. He had never had anything as nourishing as an assumption.

“I think it’s clear,” Aziraphale said peevishly, gesturing at himself, snug in his harness, “that you did exactly that.”

“Aziraphale, _don’t,_” Crowley said, who was starting to get mad himself. “I had to make sure, all right?”

“Make sure of what?” the angel demanded.

“That you’d,” Crowley began. The words fell apart in his mouth, sharp-edged detritus, like the ruin of a rocket, mangled and burnt. He cleared his throat and tried again. “That you wouldn’t,” and nope, that was a no go, either. For fuck’s sake.

Aziraphale was already talking again, his voice rising in pitch. “I am perfectly capable of looking after myself, I’ll have you know, and for you to just orchestrate all of this behind my –”

“Well of_ course_ you are,” said the demon sourly. “God forbid anyone care about you enough to –”

“ – changed my mind and decided to – what?”

Fuck, Crowley thought again, and scrubbed with tired fingers at his face. “Can’t we just,” he said helplessly, and stopped again.

“No, we can’t _just_,” Aziraphale said heatedly, and Crowley wondered why he was surprised, because when had Aziraphale ever let anything go? “It’s _so obvious_ that you decided to –”

“I decided to _be ready this time_.”

He didn’t recognize his own voice. Apparently, neither did Aziraphale, who had the gall to look completely blank. “What on earth do you mean by _that? _‘This time’?”

You remember, Crowley thought, furious. I know you remember. “Look. I had to make sure.” He turned away, but he could still feel the heat of Aziraphale’s gaze, a sunspot scalding the whole left side of his body. “That you’d stay. With me.”

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, appalled. “What are you –”

“The apocalypse,” said Crowley shortly.

There was a pause. “Well, yes, I suppose you could call it that,” and it was clear from the baffled tone that he _still didn’t understand_, “but I –”

“Not this one. The first one, the one with the Antichrist, when you – I thought that you –” Nope, that was a word that wasn’t going to come out. “Before the airbase, I – angel, I went to the bookshop –”

“I know you did, you –”

“You don’t know,” Crowley said. “You _don’t_.”

The flames, turning the cherished collection of books into ash – the little congregations of passerby, artificial bereavement on their faces, oh no, isn’t it terrible, such a charming fixture of the neighborhood, I hope the owner got out before – and Aziraphale nowhere to be found –

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. And then, suddenly, in a much smaller voice: “_Oh._”

“I didn’t know if.” His lips felt numb. “If you were just discorporated, with the war starting, or if. If maybe you were – and then I thought, no, wait, you never would have let the bookshop burn, not unless you were actually –”

“Crowley –”

“Worse than Falling, Aziraphale,” said Crowley, not looking at him. “It was worse than Falling.”

Silence, except for the sound of the passenger launch chair creaking; Aziraphale was trying frantically to get out of the harness.

“So, fine,” Crowley went on, ignoring him. “We haven’t really talked about it, and anyway you’re fine, so, fine. It’s fine. But space is dangerous, Aziraphale, and worse than that it’s fucking big, and if you had gone on your own instead of _with me_, and I didn’t know where you were, or if you were all right –”

A hand on his knee, insistent; the angel had finally gotten out of the confines of his straps and was leaning forward, a strange light blazing in his face. Crowley glared at him, defiantly, not sure what the expression meant.

And then –

“_Darling,_” Aziraphale said, fiercely, and kissed him.

Crowley was transported.

For a long moment he was no longer a demon, buckled into in a little racing pinnace, traveling hundreds of thousands of kilometers away from the planet Earth. He was an angel once more, out in the stars, learning to ignite the nuclear fusion at their center, the actual reconstruction of elements as they were undone and then remade, the exothermic rewriting of the world, the _heat _of it. It took him some time to become conscious of his body again, floating limp in its harness, Aziraphale’s hand still warm as sunlight on his knee.

“I hope this is all right,” said the angel softly, against his lips.

“Ngk,” Crowley managed.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for," and Crowley could feel the quiet huff of amusement. "Quite some time."

He wondered, in a flash of hysteria, whether the cabin had suddenly depressurized. “_Have_ you.”

_Yes,_ Aziraphale mouthed, already pressed flush to him again, such that the word was almost a taste. _Yes,_ and there definitely was something wrong with the _Ark’s _oxygen levels, thought Crowley, woozy, as he finally responded, licking the word out of him, _yes yes yes_.

Greenhouses on the moon. Seeds rooting themselves into alien soil. The paradox of this feeling, sprouting wantonly in a demon’s chest. He clutched at Aziraphale helplessly and tried to memorize everything, _everything_ –

“That was rather rash of me,” said the angel, flushed, a few minutes later. He somehow even had the composure to laugh a little. “Heaven knows how you might have responded, and there’s really nowhere for either of us to go, if you’d been angry.”

“I am angry!” Crowley snapped, grabbing for him, and he _was_, he was incandescent with it. “Angel – I’m fucking – furious!”

“Are you,” said Aziraphale, amused, letting himself be dragged forward again.

“Yes!” Crowley hissed. “I can’t believe you would do this _now,_ when we’re in a ship the size of a matchbox and there’s not even room to –”

“To?” Aziraphale inquired, the question oh so delicate, and Crowley saw, to his amazement, that the sparkle in the blue eyes was positively _coy. _

“You,” he said, with feeling, “are a _very bad angel_.”

“I have loved the Serpent of Eden for a long time now,” said the very bad angel, looking entirely unrepentant. “I do think that gives me a license to be just a little wicked.”

Crowley closed his eyes and told himself, very sternly, that he had not cried in nearly three hundred years, and he was certainly not going to now.

“Darling,” Aziraphale repeated, more sadly this time, and then Crowley felt the soft press of lips against his own again, and yielded to them, more than willing to be distracted. It was a good kiss, this third, long and lingering, Aziraphale’s hand cupping Crowley’s jaw, and ending with the words spoken straight into Crowley’s mouth, more vital than breath: “I will never leave you.”

“You don’t know that,” said Crowley, clinging to it anyway, and Aziraphale sighed, finally, finally pulling back, disentangling himself from Crowley’s desperate hands, but only so that he could hold them tightly.

“I do,” he said. “Darling, I do.”

*

_They were sharing a meal when it happened, some kind of legume hash that Crowley had cooked up – drone delivery had been extinct for a few decades by then – and although the recipe was nothing special, Aziraphale made all the proper noises of appreciation, asking about the spices, commenting on the extravagance. Crowley, who had insisted on shots of vodka prior to dinner, knew full well that the alcohol was helping tremendously, but accepted the compliments anyway, trying not to notice that the angel seemed distracted. _

_“I’m so glad you invited me over,” Aziraphale said at last, setting his fork down. “There’s been something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”_

_His heart, as it had so many times before, leapt up into his throat. Was this it? Was it happening? _

_“Because, you know,” the angel continued, staring down at the plate, and Crowley was suddenly certain that, this time, his guess was correct, even before the words were out. “I think it’s probably time for us to go.”_

_Profound relief moved through him, unfathomable gratitude. He had been starting to think seriously about chloroform. “Oh yes?” he said casually. “It’s occurred to me too, a few times. You know. Here and there.”_

_“Do you still have a ship?” said Aziraphale. “Or I suppose I could always fly, but – I wouldn’t want to take up any space on a shuttle, that seems – wrong –”_

_Crowley had had a ship, in preparation for this moment, for the last fifty years. “Angel,” he said. “Leave it to me.”_

*

Crowley felt strongly that, sometime in the future, he would be humiliated by that first couple of hours, that wild arse-over-tits wheeling through a new universe of permitted intimacy. He had had to get out of his own harness, to help Aziraphale back into his, and although the ordeal should have taken minutes, it had wound up taking the better part of an hour. For whatever reason, they could not seem to stop touching each other, tiny caresses that both flustered and infuriated him. Sex, he thought viciously, plain simple sex, would have been less mortifying than the hideous reality of Aziraphale, running the pad of his thumb over his lips, making it impossible to get anything done.

He hated it. Harness, thumbs, all of it, the entire horrible charade. And yet, somehow, when the angel was finally strapped back into the launch chair, Crowley still could not drag himself away, while Aziraphale, the absolute bastard, had laughed outright at the consternation on his face, and kissed him again.

Dignity in tatters, he somehow managed to get himself back to the pilot’s side, managed to secure his own straps again with hands that now knew the softness of Aziraphale’s hair, fuck, _fuck. _Beside him, he could hear the angel still chuckling quietly.

“My dear, you’re quite discomposed.”

“It’s been sixty-three hundred years, angel,” Crowley bit out. “Have mercy.”

“Sixty-three hundred years,” Aziraphale repeated, his amusement faltering, fading into something that almost sounded like wistfulness. Crowley darted a glance at him in time to see him sigh. “Oh, Crowley. We’ve wasted rather a lot of time.”

The demon regarded him, the starlight in the fair hair, the illusion of mortality crinkling the corners of his eyes, both familiar and wholly unknown. He thought about the last few millennia. The Pyramids, the Pantheon, Petra, Notre Dame, the London Bridge. Monuments, all of them, to the belief that some things could transcend time – and cherished, afterwards, for their audacity of hope.

“Nope,” he said. “Joke’s on you. I haven’t wasted a second.”

Aziraphale’s mouth opened, but, for the first time that Crowley could remember, he couldn’t seem to find a reply.

He was genuinely grateful when a chime from the console shattered the silence. They both looked down. A floating green alert had appeared on the dash, informing them both that they were 410,000 kilometers from Earth – out past the confines of lunar orbit – and ending with the message, bold and unmistakable: WARP SPEED PERMITTED.

The angel cleared his throat. “Is it… ?” he said weakly.

“Yep,” said Crowley, trying to summon more swagger than he felt. “It’s time.”

“Ah.”

They both looked out at the starlight, the view from the only solar system they had known for over six thousand years, and then, inexorably, Crowley’s gaze returned to the other’s face, drinking in the melancholy, the resignation, and underneath, oh glory: angelic love, bright as a nebula, glowing even brighter when their eyes met.

“You okay?”

In the space between the launch chairs, their fingers laced together, somehow an already practiced gesture. The ease of it nearly made Crowley swoon.

“Yes, my dear. Are you?”

“Angel,” he heard himself say, looking at where their hands were joined, “honestly, I – I’ve never been better.”

Past agony, much past agony, was dissolved then, by the look Aziraphale gave him. He could feel himself going pink.

“Will you_ stop_ it?”

“I’m not doing a thing,” the angel protested.

“Oh, right, sure,” muttered Crowley, disentangling himself, not sure whether the emotion strangling him was mortification or secret joy. “Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.”

“Ooh, _butter_,” Aziraphale said, momentarily derailed. “There’s a thought. Do you think they’ll have that, where we’re going?”

“If they don’t, I’m sure it’s their highest priority.”

A nod, as if this made perfect sense. “You’re right, of course.”

Crowley decided to let it go. “Ready?” he said, finger hovering over the warp button, and the angel nodded again, apparently resolute. “Right, then. Colonies in three, two –”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aziraphale interjected, bashfully, as his startled pilot only just managed to avoid catapulting them out of the solar system. “Should we take the scenic route, do you think?”

“Scenic route,” Crowley repeated, not comprehending. “Aziraphale, it’s essentially instantaneous. There’s not really anything scenic. No Kodak moments. Just a warp.”

“No reason we can’t make a couple of stops along the way, though, is there?”

“Oh, yes?” said the demon, who was starting to catch up. “What did you, ah, have in mind?”

“Alpha Centauri?” said Aziraphale. “I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”

They looked at each other.

_I could kiss him again, _Crowley thought wonderingly. _I could lean over and kiss him again, and he would let me. Because he loves me. He loves me. He –_

“Alpha Centauri,” he said, hating the hoarseness of his voice. Easy, he told himself. Casual. “Um, sure. I’d go.”

Aziraphale gave that small smug smile, the one had both tormented and delighted Crowley for so many centuries – sixty-three of them, to be nice and accurate – and settled back in the launch chair. “Well, then, my dear,” he said, closing his eyes, “I’ll go with you.”


End file.
